Operation LockBox
by cakeisnotpie
Summary: AU: Clint Barton is a war vet with issues, caught up in a supernatural series of murders in L.A. Very young Clint, no pairings, no other Avengers. Set in the Angel universe with Angel and Faith. Written for Katya.
1. Chapter 1

"_Jackpot, damn it where the hell are you? Report!"_

"…_. Coming out of …. Fuckin' monster … Hawk? Sarge? …."_

_The screams echoed along the walls of the cave as the rock shifted and moved, tunnels sinking in on themselves and opening anew in a different direction as he ran, boots kicking up dust that coated his goggles, clouded his sight._

"_C-chord? Jackpot?"_

_The only answers were screams that ended in bloody gurgles._

He jerked awake, sweat pouring off his body, thin scratchy sheets wet beneath his naked back, the heat of the Afghani summer settled in his bones, burning its way back out through his skin. The smell was the last thing to fade – rich metallic tang of blood, stench of rotting flesh, reek of excrement – lingering long after the death rattles had faded from his ears. Sitting up, he pushed away the spike of fear that was pounding in his chest by sheer will alone. Hand dragged through his wet hair, feeling the spikey length he'd let grow, a fuck-you reaction to being discharged just like the goatee. He should shave it all, go back to a buzz cut, but Roger liked the look, said more women were coming into the club to see the new bouncer. God, he'd even let himself get talked into blonde highlights because he needed the damn job; they'd only let him out of the VA if he had proof of employment.

Swinging his legs over the side of the twin bed, he felt the bite of iron from the frame, only a thin mattress separating his ass from the rods that supported him. Everything was cheap, second-hand, most left from the last tenant of this tiny apartment, not more than 200 square feet with a hot plate for kitchen, and a toilet and shower in the corner hidden behind a hanging bed sheet. But it was his, close to work and far away from hospital beds and psych eval couches, and he was going to damn well get past this because that's what he did – Clint Barton was nothing if not a survivor.

The clock read 4:34 a.m., little more than two hours of sleep, and he knew there'd be no more rest tonight, his heart racing, eyes darting to every shadow. Standing, he ran cold water in the miniature sink, splashing it on his face; there was only one thing to do at this point if he wanted to function tomorrow. Tossing his sweaty boxers into the laundry basket under the bed, he dragged on shorts and his USMC t-shirt, tied on his ancient Nikes, and grabbed a few things as he headed out the door. He didn't worry about the noise as he clattered down the stairs; his neighbors mostly worked nights, one of the draws of the building being the location, just on the edge of a good neighborhood, riding the cusp of a more commercial area with bars and nightclubs, not all that far from a darker part of town. In less than fifteen minutes, he could be in the kind of place where people locked their doors as they drove through or jogging past rows of houses with watered lawns and SUVs parked in the driveway.

The first few jolts of his feet against the pavement surprised his body, and then the steady rhythm began to push the panic back into the little box that Clint kept locked and secured right next to what was left of his heart. Each footfall cleared his brain, tension blowing out with his exhales; he didn't listen to music, letting the night and the sounds set the pace for him, sometimes a slow lope that might take him down a sleepy street, sometimes a faster run with cars whizzing on the overpasses above him. That was where he headed, down a street of closed shops, the one 24-hour mini-mart open on the corner, a light on in the bakery where Miguel was already at work baking the day's bread for the local restaurants. Down an alleyway, out along a service street, heading for the darkness of the concrete and overgrown shadows.

Not for the first time he wondered just what the hell he thought he was doing in L.A. It wasn't like he had family to go to, a place that he thought of as home; he could have picked anywhere beside this sprawling collection of elitist phonies with more money than anyone should have and the struggling wannabes who willing sold their souls for a shot at stardom. Oh, there were good people trying to live a normal life, but there was something in the water out here, or maybe in the seemingly perfect weather that was never too hot or too cold, that made even the sanest person a little crazy. So why did he think this was a good idea? His gut reaction when they told him he was getting better, to start thinking about a life beyond guns and killing and dead bodies, was to find a shack in Montana, grow a Grizzly Adams beard and become one of those separatists who mined their property and told the government to shove their tax bills up their ass. But he'd let Sarge talk him into this place with the bronzed skin of plastic bodies and bright red convertibles; he owed Sarge for dragging his sorry ass out of that hellhole of a cavern, and when he'd suggested he move, Clint had moved. He respected the man, the cop who'd enlisted and almost got killed with the rest of the grunts in his company. So here he was, jogging in the wee hours of the morning in an increasingly dicey section of town, completely unfazed by the dangers around him.

Clint knew dangerous, felt comfortable with the prickly hairs on his neck that might mean someone was watching, the solid weight of the illegal pistol he had tucked in the waistband of his shorts, the metal slick now with sweat as it rode up and down against his back, and the shadowy movements in the corner of his eye as he ran past weed infested empty lots riddled with broken bottles and used needles. This side of L.A. – the seedy underbelly was what Michael Connelly called it in the Hieronymus Bosch novels Clint read - felt familiar, like the life he'd thought he'd left behind when he joined the army at 18-years-old, eager to enlist to get the hell out. How easily he'd slipped right back into it, a bouncer a perfect cover for the other 'jobs' Roger had started offering, simple things like guarding a VIP or watching a door or driving him around. Offering money that he could use to get a better place, buy a fucking car that worked since that was a requirement for living in this place – and jobs that would lead to bigger participation in the flow of drugs that Roger managed so expertly.

Even at this hour, the hum of the tires on the concrete towering above his head was steady; L.A. never stopped moving, it seemed, even if the streets closed up in certain areas. The night was just the right temperature; he was sweating, but not overheated, endorphin high making his senses heightened, a pale imitation of the rush he'd feel before battle, enough to convince him he had a handle on himself again. Wiping the salty drops away from his eyes, he noticed a glint of white, pale and out of place, a glimmer of red half-hidden between the massive support pillars. He slowed, registering the details – bare leg, shoeless foot, dainty and small, black sequined dress catching the ambient light, brown hair spread out around her face, glassy eyes staring sightlessly up, red spattered on the wan skin, the outstretched arms, throat torn open down to the spine.

He almost kept going, running away from the body; who was he to get involved? He'd seen enough death to know that wound was fatal. There was nothing he could do for her except tell someone she was there. Stay out of it and go on with his so-called 'recovery.' Yeah, right. Clint had never run from any fight and he couldn't start on this one, not when his brain was screaming at him to get a closer look, to find out if … He stopped but stayed on the sidewalk, not stepping into the weeds because he'd leave a footprint and other evidence, contaminate the crime scene. He didn't spend four years as an MP to not learn a thing or two about forensics. Instead, he used his phone as a light, panning from her feet up to her head.

She was dressed for a club or party, not super-expensive clothing, but nice enough quality, clearly not a hooker with her velvet wrap and black clutch spilling out make up, keys, edge of a driver's license. Scavengers hadn't yet picked her clean, but they would if no one had found her. The wound demanded his attention; long slashes that carved into the skin in even rows, four of them, edges of the skin rolled back to reveal the muscles and tendons below. White bones of the spine buried amid the fleshy pink, red blood congealed and turning to brown. He wondered if rigor mortis had set in – she'd been killed here based upon the arterial spray – and he violently tamped down the memory associated with that knowledge, the helpless blue eyes begging for him to do something, anything, as his friend's lifeblood painted the walls and the front of Clint's camo. Damn it all. Now he had to know, had to find out if he had finally gone crazy because it sure as hell looked like this girl had died the same way Jackpot and C-chord and Jasper had. And that was impossible because they'd gone down in a cave in Afghanistan, not under an expressway in L.A.

Digging his cellphone out of his pocket, he dialed Sarge's home number, one of only two other people who'd understand.

…

"This is the third one," Detective Amanda Walsh told Angel as she lifted up the crime scene tape to let him cross under. "I'm not ashamed to tell you that it's creeping me out. Looks for the world like something ripped her throat open and … gnawed on her. The powers that be downtown are sticking with the animal attack story, but two bodies are accidents. A third is a serial killer to the media. They'll be all over this. The Party Girl killer; I can already see the headlines."

Angel watched Walsh's face, her weathered brown skin crinkled around her eyes as the crime techs went to work. This working grandmother had been one of his past success stories, a woman who not only had faced down the weirdness of the supernatural world she never knew existed but also stepped up to the plate to help fight it. She callrf him when cases came along that smelled of magic and demons; any number of people in L.A. owed their lives to this petite woman with a massive heart.

"Can you get me close enough to see the body?" Angel knew that Faith was already circling the area, moving through the crowd of onlookers to check them out, see if the murderer was enough of an egotist to stick around. It would be too easy, of course, if they found him hanging out at the crime scene.

"Hey, Joe, you remember Angel? Helped us out with the Cameron kidnapping?" For a tiny thing, she could muscle her way through the men without much effort. "He's going to stand right here and do a look-see for a case he's working on." She parked him close enough to smell the drying blood and see the green of the girl's lifeless eyes. Squatting down, he took his time. The problem was it could be a vampire who played with his killed, any number of demons, and a few minor deities. There were far too many things with claws and teeth that liked to eat their victim. Nothing else pointed to a specific answer. When he rose, he gave Walsh a slight shake of his head, and the hope fell out of her face. "Yeah, too easy, I know. At least this time we got to her faster; we've already traced her movements for the evening thanks to her identification. Carrie Martin, aka Carly McMann, her screen name, aspiring actor … isn't everyone out here? … actually landed some parts in episodic TV and was getting a name for herself. Lived with a roommate, one Beverly Thomas, another starlet. The two went out clubbing with friends tonight. Beverly left early with her boyfriend; last time she saw her, Carrie was dancing with some people she knew from her last job. Looks like she was taken either from the club or on her way home."

"Did the person who found her see anything?" Angel caught Faith's negative sign; nothing unusual around the area. Whoever did this was probably long gone.

"Out jogging, saw her, and called it in." Walsh nodded towards a figure in shorts and loose t-shirt standing with his back towards them, talking to a cop in uniform.

"Jogging at this time of night?" Angel asked skeptically. Only crazy people with a death wish or monsters were out and about in the dark of the morning.

"Served in Afghanistan, from what I hear, with Dee Graham, a good cop out of the 37th. A war hero, it looks like." Walsh heard a voice call her name, and she left Angel standing there as she crossed over to a group of men in suits who had just pulled up in a dark sedan. Angel looked back at the body one last time and then turned his gaze on the jogger, deciding whether he should try to interview him here at the scene or wait until later.

"Well, well, didn't know you appreciated a fine ass as much as me," Faith said as she sidled up next to him. Her eyes did a slow scan of the jogger's backside. "That is a nice view, but I didn't think you swung that way."

The joking was slowly coming back, the banter between them less forced. It had been a while since either of them had the time or the inclination; in the aftermath, they'd been too focused on simply holding on, putting one foot in front of the other to get through each hour. Maybe it was time to move on, deal with the terrible hand they'd been dealt.

"Hey, what makes you think I've never?" Angel even managed a half-hearted smile, and he could see that Faith appreciated the effort.

"Because you, Angel, are so straight that you'd spontaneously combust if you ever even thought about it. And there are many women grateful for that fact." She tossed back a brown curl that had come free in the light breeze. "And I think I just might be happy that I've got a free shot at that."

"Well, since he's the one who found the body …" Angel didn't have to wait for the smile that curled around Faith's lips and the way she sauntered over towards the jogger, taking the lead. Knowing she could handle herself, he stopped to speak to Joe about some details.

…

Clint watched the busy scurry of the police, eyeing the onlookers for suspicious activity, giving himself something to keep his brain busy and force back the memories that threatened to swamp him. The sweat on his body had dried, leaving his skin clammy as the night lightened around him with the approaching sunrise. He thought of how Roger would react to him talking to the police, if this would screw up his job security, if a thug had such a thing.

"It's okay, Hawkeye. You're not on duty tonight." Sarge laid a comforting hand on Clint's shoulder. "The cops know what they're doing."

"Yeah, I know. Old habits," he laughed, making light of it all, but the Sarge had seen it too, his face showing his surprise when saw the body.

"So, how's the job going?" Sarge asked awkwardly changing the subject to something safer.

"Pays the rent and I have my days free, so I can't complain." Last thing Clint wanted was Sarge to get suspicious; he'd been too good to Clint for him to let him down now.

"Excuse me," the woman interrupted, cigarette in her hand. "You don't have a light do you? I know you're not supposed to smoke at a crime scene, but I'm jonesing something bad. Trying to quit, you know, but it's really hard when you see shit like this on a daily basis. My partner," she jerked her head towards a knot of detectives and cops, "is on a health kick, so I have to hide from him if I want a smoke."

"Sorry," Clint showed her his empty hands. "I don't generally smoke while I run."

Sarge had a lighter, and she drew in as the end turned red, blowing out her first breath of smoke away from them. Dark brown hair, muscular body clad in jeans, t-shirt and leather jacket, she looked far too young to be a detective, but Clint wasn't the best at judging age. Everyone thought he was ten years younger that he actually was, so the woman could easily be in her thirties. Then he really looked into her eyes – and saw a world of hurt there, the kind of sadness that only loss and pain could bring, a coldness he knew lived in his own eyes. Yeah. She'd seen a lot of shit like this.

"You found the body then?" she asked casually, taking another long drag on the cigarette, a satisfied little moan escaping her lips as the taste of nicotine rolled over her tongue. Oh, yeah, that too he could understand. Maybe if Clint hadn't already been messed up because of the nightmare, the dead body, the similarities he might have noticed that the woman's question was a little too casual, her words a little too laced with sex appeal, and the alarms would have gone off in his brain. It could have been that the smell of the smoke stirred his own craving for a drag or that it had been a long time since a woman made him have any kind of reaction; for whatever reason, he ignored all the warnings.

"Just happened to be jogging by." He must have looked too longingly at her because she pulled out a pack of Marlboros and offered them both one; Clint took his but Sarge shook his head no.

"I'm going to step over here and see if you're free to go," Sarge said as he gave Clint a light. "Plus, I don't know if my willpower is up to snuff tonight. Going to run In the face of temptation. The wife will kill me if I come home smelling of smoke anyway."

"So, they're going with an animal attack," she offered after the other man had walked away.

"In L.A.? More likely a deranged werewolf wannabe. Ran into a group of kids who actually thought they were vampires. Real ones. Drank blood and everything." They'd come into the club just three days ago, all dressed in black and red, white makeup, the whole nine yards. What did those brats know about suffering anyway?

"I blame that damn book series, sparkly vampires who are nothing but creepy stalkers. Someone should stake Edward's ass," she laughed at that, some private joke it seemed. At least he knew what she was talking about. Too many references from the past few years sailed right over his head. "You didn't see anything did you? I'd love to catch the bastard who killed these women."

"Sorry, just saw the body and called Sarge." These women? Clint caught the plural and his head spun. There'd been more than one? "I wish there was more I could do to help."

"Hey, Clint," Sarge said, looking up from his confab with another officer. "They said you're free to go. I'll give them your number if they need to call."

…

Angel gave one last survey of the area before looking for Faith; she was still with the jogger, half-smoked cigarette in her hand, one of her favorite ways to initiate a conversation.

"Hey Clint," a man said. "They said you're free to go. I'll give them your number if they need to call."

The jogger turned, giving Angel a full profile view of his face, and Angel felt like the breath had been knocked out of him. It was impossible. He'd killed Penn himself a few years ago. Watched him turn to ash. But here he was, standing within touching distance of Faith – who'd never had the pleasure – chatting over another dead woman. New name, different clothes, no glasses, but, god, he looked just like him.

…

Clint nodded goodbye Sarge and took the opportunity to get the hell out of dodge. Something was raising the hackles on the back of his neck, and his brain was screaming at him to get out of there. With a quick thanks to the female detective for the smoke, he started off towards his apartment, jogging slowly as he went. Within steps, he knew he was being followed, the lightest of scuffs and moving shadows betraying that there was at least two of them; he cut through an alley to the busier street, intent on luring them out in the open, his heart beating with excitement at the thought of a fight. He whirled as he heard the sound behind him, lashing out with a martial arts kick that a dark-haired man in a leather coat deflected – he'd seen him at the scene with the cops. He rolled, managing to evade the woman's first rush – the detective? - and then it was a tangle of punches and kicks as they tried to corner him against a dumpster. They worked together as only long time teammates could do, and their strength was amazing, more than human. He held his own as long as he could against them both, but she finally landed a punch that knocked his head hard into the metal side of the garbage bin. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he slid to the ground, unconscious.


	2. Chapter 2

"_Get your ass in gear, Hawkeye. We are leaving!"_

_Sarge dragged him back with a bruising hold on his arm as Clint tried to get free. They were there, screaming his name, begging in voices that would haunt him the rest of his life._

"_We've got to save them. They're still alive!" Clint hissed._

"_The others are done for, boy. If you go back, you're dead too." _

_The sound of rending flesh, sickeningly wet, like ripping apart a juicy orange. The smell of fresh blood. The heart-rending pleas._

He woke in the dark, on the floor, body curled into a fetal position, shaking until his teeth rattled. His head hurt, felt like someone had slammed it into at metal … oh, right. The woman from the crime scene. Definitely not a detective. Cops didn't usually go around attacking people in alleyways. The guy was her partner though, for sure; they worked together too smoothly not to be. He had to deal with the here and now, so the past was mercilessly ignored as he pushed himself up, pulling his hands away from his face, trying to see where he was. Bars. Cold metal with a big lock. Some sort of basement. Yeah, definitely not cops. But they'd talked to the police, been friendly with them, so who the hell could they be? And why did they want him?

More than just his head ached; their blows left his shoulder throbbing and aggravated his knee injury. Still, he climbed his hands up the bars until he could stand and lean against them, shifting his weight onto one leg. Very little ambient light was in the room; if he squinted he could make out a door jamb and what might be a boarded up window. He rattled the door to his cage lightly, but it was locked tight.

"Don't worry, that will hold a raging werewolf on a full moon, so you're just wasting your time."

Clint was startled and jumped back; his knee gave way and he tumbled down into a heap on the ground. Righting himself, he scuttled away from the voice, put his back against the side of the cage along the wall. A figure detached itself from a dark corner; black hair, long black coat, brooding face, he stopped when he was standing just outside of the cage door, staring down at Clint with his dark eyes.

"Werewolf? What the hell is this? A bad sci-fi movie?" The man had to be a psycho, working with the cops or not.

"How did you do it, Penn? I killed you myself. How are you alive? Make a deal with a demon or two?"

"Look, I'm Lance Corporal Clint Barton. I don't know anyone named Penn and I sure as hell don't know any demons to make deals with. If I did, I wouldn't be here, would I?" Clint's mouth always ran away with itself; that was one of the things that kept knocking him back in the Marine Corps. He just couldn't bring himself to say 'yes, sir' and forget it.

"Right. And you expect me to believe it's coincidence that you show up here when we've got three victims with their throats ripped out? You always did have a problem with women."

"You think I killed those women?" Clint was in serious trouble here; this guy was off his rocker if he believed that. "You're insane, you know that?"

"There is an easy way to solve part of this," the woman said. She was lounging in the now open doorway, watching the whole thing. "If you'd move out of the way, we can find out pretty quickly."

Brooding and angry – Clint didn't have a name for the dude, but that worked – stepped back into the shadowy corner while the woman pulled away the board that was blocking the window. Sunlight filtered in, falling in a slanted line across the floor and on Clint's face in the cage. He blinked. What the hell? They were waiting for some reaction, but Clint just glared at them.

"See. I told you. Not a vamp. He might have some good moves, better than other humans, but he's not a blood sucker, so no Penn."

"Still doesn't answer why he looks so much like the bastard," the man growled. Clint kept quiet, hoping to learn more, searching for any possibility of escape, letting them carry on the conversation.

"Ummm, genetics? Did Penn have a family? Someone who could have passed the genes down?"

"He killed his whole family, but there could have been cousins. Still, it can't be coincidence that similar murders start again and this guy's here." He started to walk forward, but stopped at the edge of the light.

"Not arguing that, big guy. Just saying not a vamp." She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him an exasperated look. "So let's move on."

They both turned their attention on Clint, serious gazes of people who followed through on their threats. Every hair on the back of his neck stood up, his well-honed warning system going off.

"Alright then, Lance Corporal Clint Barton. Want to tell us how you're connected to all this?" the woman asked. She dragged a chair over to the cage, spun it around and straddled it, resting her chin on the ladder back.

"I went for a jog. Found a body. Was a good little citizen and called the cops. Got beat up and locked in a cage for my trouble."

She grinned at the sarcasm in his voice. "Jogging at 4 am in the morning? Really?"

"Sometimes I can't sleep. It helps relax me." Close enough to the truth to work, Clint thought.

"Flashbacks wake you up?" The man looked right at him and Clint felt a shiver run down his spine. Those eyes housed terrible pain and suffering. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

No way was Clint going to open up to these two. For all he knew, they could be hired guns or something worse – government black ops types. A few years ago, he'd have laughed at the idea of X-files type of agents, but not now; he'd been interviewed by a few. So, he just sat in silence until a cell phone rang. The man took an older flip phone from his pocket, checked the display, nodded to the woman and left the room to take the call.

"Okay, let's start this again. I'm Faith; big dark and handsome's name is Angel, and we're P.I.s. Honestly, we're the good guys here, so, um, sorry about the bruises and banging your head off the dumpster." She was suddenly charming, flirty even. Damn good interrogation techniques. "I'd say it was a shame to mark up that very nice body, but then I have a little kink about that, if you know what I mean."

He didn't go for the bait, let her drift on the wind for a bit.

"Fine. Let's put it this way; we've got three dead bodies and someone who looks a whole lot like a known serial killer." Her voice grew more serious.

"A serial killer who was a vampire," he spoke before he thought about it. When she looked startled, he held his hand in the beam of sunlight. "Not on fire here." He pointedly stared at her hand; the corner of her mouth quirked up and she waved her own hand in the light as well. "But you're not entirely human either. No one – man or woman – can hit that hard and move that fast."

"It's a perk of my job. But I'm as human as you." She was eyeing him now with more respect. "You're handling the existence of vampires pretty well here. Almost like you already knew."

"There are more things, Horatio, on Heaven and Earth than man can dream of," he replied.

"Shakespeare?" The man – Angel - asked as he came back into the room.

"What? Because I have a GED and am a military grunt, I can't read?" Clint shot back at him. Angel only raised an eyebrow in reply.

"That was Walsh. M.E. puts time of death between 10 p.m. and midnight," Angel said then looked pointedly at Clint. "And it seems the only possible witness is missing. His buddy the cop has put out a call to find him since he's part of an on-going case at the moment. They think the killer grabbed him last night."

"10 and midnight?" Clint was thinking quickly. "Sorry to break the news, but I was at work from 4 until closing at 2 a.m. Rode the bus home instead of walking because Janice was working; I always make sure she doesn't wait at the stop alone. Guess that lets me off the hook."

The two exchanged a look and then the woman stood and unlocked the door, swinging it open, surprising Clint.

"Is this the part when you tell me you have to kill me because I know too much about your operation?" he asked.

Faith laughed, her face relaxing with humor, a little of the harshness gone, making her even prettier. "I like him. Can we keep him?"

"You do remember what happened to the goldfish?" Angel actually smiled, the first one Clint had seen.

…

The early clubbers were just starting to filter in and Clint had time to let the events of the last day sink in finally. After Angel and Faith had let him go, along with the to-be expected veiled threats about not leaving town, he'd barely had time to call Sarge and tell him a made-up story about getting mugged to cover his absence before he had to get to work. Sarge suspected that Clint was covering for a really bad episode; he'd lost whole days before, trapped in an endless loop of his worst memories, so he let Sarge make the assumption. Worked as well as anything else Clint would tell him. Vampires? Sarge would probably walk Clint back to the doors of the VA if he tried to tell the truth.

Because Clint was certain now that Angel was a vampire. Was it really that far of a leap considering what Clint had seen in that cave? Sarge may have convinced himself it was insurgents that had killed the others, but Clint knew the truth. Whatever had ripped out the throats of those men – battle-hardened marines who whimpered like children and died crying - was not human. It might have worn a human suit, but it was something else entirely. Now blood-sucking undead and Clint looked just like one who had been a killer? In the realm of possibilities, a vampire detective didn't seem all that far-fetched. Faith might be human, but there were too many clues that Angel wasn't.

He suppressed the shiver that threatened to shake his body, a sure sign he was slipping into an episode, and he wondered to himself why he'd kept his knowledge a secret. A misguided sense of wanting to find whatever this was himself, face it down, either kill or be killed, he imagined. Some part of his psyche had long ago accepted that he should have died that day alongside his friends, Sarge should have let him go back, should never had dragged his sorry ass out of there. The shrinks all said that was survivor's guilt, but Clint knew it was the god's honest truth; he was living on borrowed time, should have come home in a flag draped coffin. There was no other viable outcome; Clint wasn't some hero that the world needed. He was a grunt who was fast on his way to becoming a thug, just as likely to end up on the wrong side of a gun as do anything worthwhile with his life. It didn't bother him, this knowledge. In fact, it made life bearable; it was all a fluke, his being here, and one that could easily be remedied. And now he had a way to do it; fate was offering him a second chance. He'd find this son-of-a-bitch and that would be that. Maybe, along the way, he'd stop someone else from dying; that would be an added benefit to righting the wrong done that day. Better than dying in a useless drive-by. He just had no idea how to go about finding a murderer.

"So I hear you had some excitement last night?" Roger sat down next to Clint at the still empty bar, his mask perfectly in place so Clint couldn't get a read on his emotions.

"Went for a job, found a dead body, and got mugged." Clint's bruises showed in his short grey t-shirt. "The last one is the shittiest of the bunch. Big bad ex-marine got the snot kicked out of him in an alley by some punks."

Roger snorted, and Clint caught a flash of frustration. "Happens to the best of us. Those little shits probably had guns. Count yourself lucky you weren't shot and left for dead." He waved his hand to the young bartender – Roger only hired good-looking employees for the front of the house. The man poured some scotch in a glass and passed it over. "The cops ask anything about us?"

There it was, Roger's real concern. Clint had thought this out before hand, expecting the question. "Just where I worked and my hours yesterday. I think they're checking into the girl's last few hours; one of them said she'd been here for a short while. Joe said he verified my employment and work schedule when they called, but that was it. They're focused on this killer. It was brutal, man."

Roger sipped. "If she was here, we can expect a visit soon then. They'll be following up on the others, see if there's a connection."

Clint nodded. "Yeah, but I'm in the clear. First one happened before I even got here, so they're done looking at me." And with that, Clint assured Roger that he was still okay to work, turned the man's attention in another direction.

"Good," Roger stood, taking his glass. "I'll get Joe working on preparing for the inevitable requests for information just in case the other women were here."

…

"_Hey, Hawkeye, you going to pay up on that bet, man?" C-chord whispered over the comm link. _

"_Haven't lost a bet yet, douchebag," Clint replied, moving forward cautiously; the cave might be abandoned, but there was always a chance of something being left behind, booby traps, or even just wild animals looking for a place to weather a storm. _

"_It's Tuesday and he's still here, so you lose, buddy." They'd taken bets on how long it took the latest U.N. observer to wuss out and leave this hellhole of a camp they were stationed in, if a collection of ancient tents could be called a camp. _

"_Four more hours," Jackpot argued. "We are so going to win."_

_Clint turned to look at his friend, ready to razz C-Chord more when the hand grabbed the man from behind, long talons biting into his skin, ripping right through the desert camo to draw blood. A figure came into focus, eyes shining inhuman silver as he tore his other hand across C-Chord throat, down to the bone in one swipe. Night goggles on his helmet, he smiled to reveal a row of sharp pointy teeth as he leaned down to sink them into C-Chord's throat …_

"No!" Clint sat up, shout echoing in the small room, shoving covers blindly away as he frantically tried to bring the face into focus, but it remained indistinct. Still, that was more than he'd ever remembered before. The doctors had assured him that the memories would come back, over time, and then he'd see what he was repressing, why he had to invent monsters instead of facing the truth. Horseshit, of course, because there was a monster. Breathing heavily, he sat there, wide awake in the wee hours of the morning yet again. He'd just had about enough of this shit. One of the nicer of the therapists the VA had foisted on him had suggested hypnotism as a way to remember; Clint had nixed it immediately. There were too many things about his past that he couldn't take the chance of coming up in a session, and the very thought of someone messing around in his memories made him feel like throwing up. But now that he had this chance to make things right, maybe he could risk it.

He'd had all night to think of a plan of action only to realize he couldn't do this by himself. He couldn't ask Sarge for help; the man would go with him, ask questions, what to make sure Clint was okay. He supposed he could just pick a name out of phonebook at random, but that was stupid. Before he thought about it any further, he was dialing the new number in his phone, not worried about what time it was. He figured a vampire would be up.

…

"Why don't you relax? This will be much easier if you do," the woman soothed a soft hand down Clint's tense arm.

"Sorry but I don't think that's possible. Never had a hypnotist mess with my brain before." Clint was regretting his decision now that he was resting on a couch with Angel, Faith and this very nice looking little old lady hovering over him. He wasn't very good with trust anymore – no strike that – he'd never been any good at it.

"Well, good thing I'm not a hypnotist then," the woman traced her finger on Clint's forehead, then his neck, then his bicep, forearm, ankle, and finally the palm of each hand.

"What?" His eyes flew open and he started to sit up.

"Witch, dear. I'm a witch. Now sleep."

"_Four more hours," Jackpot argued. "We are so going to win."_

_Clint turned to look at his friend, ready to razz C-chord more when the hand grabbed the man from behind, long talons biting into his skin, ripping right through the desert camo to draw blood. A figure came into focus, eyes shining inhuman silver as Jasper tore his other hand across C-Chord's throat, down to the bone in one swipe. Clint's teammate smiled to reveal a row of sharp pointy teeth as he leaned down to sink them into C-Chord's throat._

_They jumped back, all of them, shouting in confusion as Jason Thomas, aka Jasper, father of three and Deacon of the Rocky Creek Baptist Church, killed his best friend, swallowing hunks of flesh as he gnawed on the open wound. Jackpot fired first, bullet going into Jasper's shoulder, force pushing him back a step; the creature – for this was no longer the man they knew – growled at them, dropped the body he was holding and moved in a blink, fingers grabbing Jackpot's arm, yanking it with a sickening crack of bone. Jasper's scream filled the cavern, and Clint put a bullet right between Jasper's eyes as Jackpot rocked and keened in a high voice, holding his arm at an unnatural angle._

"_What the fuck?" Sarge stepped over to help the injured man._

_Shadows detached themselves from the walls, closing in on them, flowing over the bodies and inching towards the living. Jasper sat up, dead eyes unblinking; his hands wrapped around Jackpot's ankle, pulling him down to the floor with a thud; shadows crept up and over the man's jerking bod, his screams echoing off the rock walls. Clint pulled the trigger again and again, but the bullets only ricocheted, no substance to hit._

_Then Sarge was there. "Get your ass in gear, Hawkeye. We are leaving!"_

"_We've got to save them. They're still alive!" Clint hissed._

"_The others are done for, boy. If you go back, you're dead too." _


	3. Chapter 3

"I've got four possibilities here, but my money's on this puppy." Faith spun the book around to show the others. "A Gallu Demon. Nasty little buggers from Samaria. Basically hit men for the gods, nothing but killing machines. Here's the relevant part: they can go dormant for years, basically becoming shadows and they prefer caves to hide out in. When they're called, they possess a new body … or if they're disturbed and then they wake up hungry and pissed off."

"So these … demons … one of them was inside of Jasper? But he got up after I shot him." Clint tried to wrap his brain around this. In some ways, it was much easier to buy this story than the one the psychologists were peddling about stress and mental breakdowns. His own brain had been fighting their answer, knowing that Jasper hadn't snapped, thus the dreams and the confusion.

"They're pretty powerful," Angel said as he read through the rest of the information. "But they would have had to jump to a living host pretty quickly, day or two at most."

"So how do we get one of these guys here? The mountains of Afghanistan, that's a perfect party waiting to happen, but L.A.?" Faith shook her head.

"Bodily possession. Some soldier that came back a Gallu." Angel looked at Clint.

"Whoa, no. Don't start that again. I'm not a demon." Clint protested.

"Snake venom." Faith declared.

"What?" Angel and Clint said at the exact same time.

"They hate snakes. Ishtar, the Goddess of War and Strife, could order the Gallu around like her servants and used snakes as messengers. Snake venom, even just rubbed on the skin, will freak them out." Faith smirked. "Didn't read the rest of the page did you?"

"That's pretty dangerous, isn't?" Clint said, swallowing. Okay, he didn't hate snakes or anything, but he wasn't particularly fond of them considering the cave versions he'd run into while on deployment. Nasty sons-of-bitches. "Look, wouldn't I know if one of those things were in me? And then I sure as hell wouldn't come to you for help if it was."

"Relax. You weren't even in town during the first killing," Angel waved his concern off.

The phone rang; Faith picked it up. "Angel Investigations." She winkled her nose and shot Angel an annoyed look. "Probably didn't chargeiIt. He's bad about that." She waved the receiver at him. "Cell phone's dead again and we've got another body."

….

There was a part of Clint that was relieved to finally know what had happened that day, even if it was a wild story about demons and shadows and walking corpses. He'd always known that psych's answer wasn't right, and now he had a goal, something concrete to do that might help bring closure for his teammate's deaths. He wondered, as he stood quietly by the lovely old convertible Angel drove, if he should tell Sarge the truth; it might do the other man a world of good to know there was nothing they could have done once the Gallu demon took over Jasper's body, that they'd all have been dead if he and Sarge hadn't reacted quickly.

He wracked his brain as watched the CSI unit canvas the scene – another young woman, throat slashed, body dumped in an abandoned lot – wondering if he could have been the demon's ride out of Afghanistan. He was pretty damn messed up when Sarge had gotten him back to base; twice he'd tried to go back, sure that he could save the others, ripping out the IV and fighting his way out of the hospital. Talking about shadows was a sure way to get a psych eval and quick trip stateside; doing so after a terrorist attack on the team meant a stint in the VA mental ward. If he was honest, he'd been so screwed up by meds and well-meaning doctors that he didn't remember half of that time. But one thing he was sure of – he hadn't killed these women. He could account for his whereabouts for each of the murders; Angel was right, he wasn't even in L.A. for the first one, and the others had all occurred while he was working, in the club in clear sight of any number of witnesses. So if he had been the damn thing's ticket to the States, he wasn't any more, and he was more than ready to see the thing dead for what it had done.

Faith was on the phone, talking to someone about jewelry or something; she'd said she was working on a way to kill the damn thing once they figured out where it was, luring it out and destroying it. That sounded great, and he was all for it, but right now he was trying to stop shaking as a full blown panic attack threatened to swamp him. The hypnotism, or whatever the hell it had been, had taken a lot out of him; add that to the lack of sleep and he was running on fumes. It was the worst moment to have a breakdown, so he shoved it back, went with breathing techniques; okay it was Lamaze breathing, but he didn't give a damn as long as it worked.

"We've got a problem," Angel said as he came up to the car. "Guess which club she was dancing in last night?"

Clint blinked. "Stage Right?" Damn it. Damn it all to hell. "Were the others there as well? I didn't get a good look at her face. I might remember her."

A grainy picture on his phone was all Angel had, but it was enough to jog the memory loose from Clint's mind. "A group of them, five, all women, young, mid-twenties. Sat at a round booth, fruity girl drinks, lots of dancing. Popular with the guys, all of them. One of the girls left with a studio guy – works in marketing I think, liked to talk to everyone – but I didn't see what happened to this one."

"Two of them last seen at the bar you work?" Angel sound skeptical. "We should check it out."

"What about the other two?" Clint asked out of curiosity. "Were they taken from clubs too?"

"One from a club called Clover over on Sepulveda and another just a few streets over from one called 99 Steps," Faith supplied.

Clint tried to hide his reaction, but Angel must have sensed the change. "What?"

"All three of those clubs belong to my boss, Roger Mortimer."

…

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Clint managed to get a good four hours of solid sleep – no dreams troubled him even after the sun rose and warmed the room. He'd forgotten what it felt like, to not be drenched in sweat or have his heart pounding out of his chest. If he had something besides instant coffee, he might even be feeling something approaching normal, whatever the hell that might be. The memory of the dead still haunted him, but there was a clarity to his thoughts this morning that hadn't been there yesterday. Truth was an amazing thing. He checked his phone; there were two messages, and the clock showed that he had time to head down to the coffee shop for a real cup of Joe before he made the call to Roger for the afternoon meet. The man had no idea what was coming.

…

"Blood? Really? That's the answer?" Angel asked. Faith turned the page in the large book.

"For these guys, it's like an infection. A transfusion would work. Or just bleeding enough out to force it out of the body." She cut him a sly smile. "Seems you might have had the right idea with the whole blood letting thing and demons in your day. Plays with the snakes too – a snake can sense the Gallu through blood."

"So what, we go in with a snake in one pocket and a needle in the other?" Angel shook his head in disbelief.

"Oh, god, don't make me drag out the 'is that a snake in your pocket' joke." Faith closed the book and reached for her backpack. "Come on. Got to stop by a store and see a man about a snake."

…

3 o'clock in the afternoon was the quiet before the storm in the club. Cleaning crews were at work, along with restocking of the bar; the DJs were working on the sound system in the back room. Clint loved this time of the day, when he could hang out at the bar and talk to Jamie and Karen, the early bartenders, or fiddle with the music playlist and learn more about the system. Today, however, there was only Karen stocking the bar and Dave, one of the technicians, working in the back. Roger was there and, to Clint's surprise. Sarge was sitting in one of the comfortable chairs around a low table.

"There you are. I left messages, but you didn't get back to me. Thought I'd just catch you here." The older man stood up as Clint approached. "You got a minute?"

This was all kinds of wrong. Angel was due any second and the plan had been to question Roger about the employees of the various clubs to suss out any potential suspects. Sarge complicated matters; Clint's role had been to play Roger's supporter, to watch for any tell-tale signs of lies or subterfuge. After all, he'd come to know a lot about Roger's little empire, and there were any number of flunkies who might make a perfect vessel for a nasty demon.

"Sure, Sarge. Come on over to the bar," Clint pulled out a stool, one where he could keep an eye on the room as they talked, close enough to overhear what was going on at the other table. They sat down just as Angel and Faith came through the back door – the man traveled by sewer during the days, he'd said. Clint divided his attention between the two conversations.

"Clint, listen to me. There's another woman. Last night. She's connected to the club, just like the last one. Something's going on here." Sarge leaned in, concern in his eyes, voice pitched low. "If there's anything you need to tell me, anyone you want us to look at, you'll let me know, right? Mortimer's on the radar in the precinct; I've been checking, and I'm worry about you. I can find you another job."

"Mr. Mortimer, thanks for taking the time to meet us. We appreciate it," Angel offered his hand and the two men shook, Roger standing up to do so. "We just have a few questions and then we'll be on our way."

"I have to admit being unclear on exactly how you're connected to the police department," Roger said, not sitting back down. "Consultants? Detectives?"

"There are four murdered women," Faith went with her bad cop voice. The woman was good at being scary and sexy at the same time; if Clint wasn't in love with his balls, he'd make a move on her. But he really didn't want to be a eunuch. "And all of them disappeared from clubs you own, Mr. Mortimer. We don't believe in coincidences."

"There's some of the guys, retired, they're opening a bar and need a bartender. I think you'd be good at it. Let me give them a call …" Sarge was saying when Clint dragged his attention back to his friend.

"I don't know a thing about mixing drinks," Clint replied.

"I own over fourteen different businesses, Mr. … Angel?" Roger waited for Angel to supply the rest of his name, but there was no answer forthcoming. "Eight of them are clubs, all very popular, packed on the weekends."

"And you know everyone who works there? It could be a regular patron, someone who frequencies them all." Faith leaned forward, putting her fingers on Roger's wrist. Her bracelet rubbed along his hand; Clint knew it would release some of the snake venom onto Roger's skin. He watched for some reaction, something, but Roger just patted her hand and gave her that leer he thought was irresistible to women.

"True. I will gladly put my managers and employees at your disposal. I can assure you, it's not one of them. I thoroughly check the background of everyone who works for me. Everyone. But it could be a customer. You can ask as many questions as you like." Roger stood, walking over to the bar; Karen knew to pour him a scotch, having it ready when he got there. As he reached for it, his hand brushed Sarge's arm, just below the edge of his checkered sleeve. The reaction was immediate; Sarge jumped off of his stool, hand scrabbling at his arm, trying to wipe the venom away. His face changed, human features fading into a monstrous visage worthy of a horror movie. In a flash, Sarge whirled, grabbed Roger, twisting his arm behind him and using him as a shield.

"Fucking vampires." Sarge's voice changed, more guttural and animal-like. "Just roll over and take the blame, why don't you? That's the way it's always been."

"Sarge?" Clint asked, incredulous. He couldn't believe it, but it made perfect sense.

"Not Sarge, you whiny little shit. Not since he went back to get those bodies. Got to return the meat suits to their families." Sarge laughed and his hands grew long talons that sank into the skin of Roger's neck, rivulets of blood trailing down onto Roger's expensive polo shirt. "Now, you are all going to be really good and let me walk out of here, or I'm going to rip this drug dealer's throat right out."

"You're not getting out of here," Angel warned as they started to slowly move, trying to flank him.

"Oh, you have no idea." With one fluid movement, Sarge ripped open Roger's throat, the arterial spray spattering Karen behind the bar, her face frozen in terror. Roger jerked, body trembling as his nerves sent jolts out through him, a death gasp as it were. Roger's eyes went dark as Sarge – the demon – raked across his stomach, opening a wide gaping wound, his intestines spilling out across the floor, the smell overpowering.

Clint went for his gun, drew it from his waistband and took a solid bead on Sarge's forehead. "Sarge. Stop. I don't want to do this, but I will."

"Fuck you," the demon answered. He let the dead man slide to the floor as he moved with lightning quickness towards Karen who huddled behind the bar. But Angel moved just as fast, grabbing the demon's arm and pulling him away.

"Get out," Clint ordered the woman who was cowering back against the glass wall of bottles. "Get Dave and go out the back."

He watched Angel lash out with a punch to Sarge's middle, more powerful than any human could manage, but it didn't slow the demon down. Faith came from behind, kick landing in the middle of Sarge's back, pushing him forward into Angel; talons swung and caught her calf, blooding blossoming in their wake. Sighting down the barrel of the pistol, Clint fired one bullet into Sarge's shoulder; Angel glanced over at him, surprised. It hadn't been a clear shot and most people wouldn't have been able to make it. But even the bullet didn't stop Sarge; he knocked Angel off of him and lunged for Clint, wearing his demonic face for all to see. Clint took out his knee with one well-placed shot and Sarge went down; even as Clint watched, the demon screamed and jerked, trying to move forward.

"Can we get it out of him?" Clint asked; he didn't want to watch a good man die, someone who had saved his life. "Kill it somehow without hurting him?"

"We take him back to the office, get him set up for a blood transfusion," Angel suggested. "He'll need a doctor for the other wounds."

"Clint?" Sarge begged from his place on the floor. "What's happening to me? Did I do that? Kill those girls?"

"No, Sarge, it was a demon, the shadows from the cave. Not you," Clint assured him.

"Please," Sarge caught Clint's wrist, his eyes wide, pleading. "Kill me. What I've done. I can't live with it. Kill me and this thing as well." The man was coughing up blood just before he lost consciousness from the pain of the two gunshots.

"I can't …" Clint staggered back to the bar, feeling suddenly off-balance, cold creeping up his arm from the touch, something oily and evil sliding under his skin. The edges of his vision darkened and then it was like being pulled away from his skin, his mind coming unstuck, drifting away from his eyes, his mouth, his hands, his whole body. A putrid and foul feeling shoved Clint back, taking control, blinking his eyes, flexing his fingers around the gun still held loosely by his side. He could see Sarge, and he could sense the pulse of blood inside him, rushing through his veins, carrying a terrible disease throughout.

"Let's get him out to the car," Faith said to Clint who wasn't Clint anymore. "I'll call for help."

He tried to say something, to reach out, to do anything, but the demon pinched him tighter into an even smaller space, its lust raking over Clint, making him nauseous. Plans ran through the demons mind – follow Faith out to the car, kill her and Sarge there, take the vampire if he could, then find another city, somewhere south of the border where he could kill as he wanted. The images filled his head – blood, the soft skin parting, the taste of it in his mouth – and he struggled even more. Maybe knowing what was happening, what this demon was, would give him an edge.

"Clint?" Faith was looking at him, waiting on him to respond. He stepped over towards her, the demon heightening his senses, smelling her scent; when he got close enough, he drew on every reserve he had, the hidden depths that had kept him going through the years in the orphanage, the days in the circus, the betrayal by his brother, through all the violence and death he'd seen in the Marines. Balled it up along with the pain and the panic and the fear, opened every box he'd locked away inside of himself, waiting for this moment to be used.

He made himself stumble, reach to catch his balance, falling into Faith, his hand connecting with the bracelet on her wrist. The demon raged, turning on Clint and delivering the equivalent of a roundhouse punch to his mind; reeling, Clint could barely focus on Faith and Angel's reaction to the revelation that the demon was now inside of him. Howling, the demon turned on them, using Clint's body and his years of training. He slammed a fist into Faith's face before she could move. Angel's hands clamped down on his arm, wrenching it backwards until he could feel his shoulder pop out of the joint, an intense pain that did little to slow the demon down. A fist slammed into his stomach, driving all the breath from his lungs – Faith back in the fight, talking to him as she hit him two more times.

"Fight it, Clint. We can get it out of you."

Twisting his body, heedless of the damage he might cause to himself, he wrenched himself free from the iron like grip, spinning and landing a blow on Angel that made the vampire back up a few steps. Agony jolted into him as Faith's kick to his back did some damage, but the demon still fought, using every trick Clint knew. One arm hanging useless, splinters of pain with every movement, Angel's next blow crashed into his jaw and shook his whole head, snapping it to the side. He managed to get one more punch in, and then it was a back and forth between the two. Faith took out his knee, and he fell forward into Angel's hard right to his solar plexus, and yet the demon still fought, Clint unable to stop it, despite the brutalization of his body. Finally, Angel used Clint's good arm, twisting it behind him and shoving him against the bar, immobilizing him. Clint could see them in the mirror, his own bruised face, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and his nose, arm at an odd angle. He could see Angel's eyes, and he knew there was no way this demon was going to go quietly.

"He won't go," Clint rattled out between his teeth, followed by a groan as his ribs were pressed down into the bar. "Only one way. Kill me."

"I'm just going to knock you out and then we'll get this out of you," Angel argued.

The demon laughed. "I never imagined I meet a vampire gone soft enough to care for human life. Only one way you're getting me out of this body. I like it. He's smart and tough and has more potential than I've seen in quite a long while. I could do things with this one."

As the demon spoke, Clint could hear the thoughts, see what he was talking about. To say he didn't scare easily was an understatement – Clint had lived through some of the worst things this life had to offer – but this terrified him right down to his toes. But it was truly the only way.

"Do it." Clint fought for every word. "Take the blood."

Angel's eyes met his in the mirror, understanding and remorse there. Aches and pains helped Clint take back enough control to nod, ever so slightly, in agreement.

"You just have to take enough to kill it," Faith said, behind them.

A hand tugged his hair, tilting his head to the side, baring his neck; Angel's face shifted, his fangs revealed as his mouth opened. The demon tried to win free, kicking back with his feet, but the weight of Angel's body bore down on him, pinning him in place, tremors of shock from his wounds loosening the demon's hold even more. He didn't close his eyes as Angel's mouth descended; the first brush of fangs was a cold little line along the vein, and he flinched, involuntarily. Then twin points of fire shot into him, all the way down to his heart; teeth sank in, little rivulets of blood trickled to the collar of his grey t-shirt, growing stains of dark red. Screaming in frustration, the demon scrambled inside of him, but Clint kept his mouth shut, only a sigh of pain escaping, nothing showing of the internal battle he was fighting. A current pulled at the darkness that was settled in his head, carrying it away bit by bit; Clint swore he could feel it too, the pull of Angel's mouth as he sucked, the ebb and flow of his life blood. The first sting of the bite was replaced by something else, something that stirred in Clint's body, a sort of longing; he'd lived with death so close for so long, with the knowledge that life was pain and there was no happy ending, and now this, an intimate offer of another possibility. What was the phrase? A consummation to be devoutly wished? As the demon's flailing grew weaker, Clint's eyes sagged, his energy fleeing with each ounce that drained away, and he wondered exactly what it would be like, this dark sleep that claimed so many but never him. Taking the demon with him had seemed reward enough, but now he found himself desiring something more. The revelation hit him, here at the end of his life, that dying might not be the answer after all. Maybe there was another path for him, one that didn't end with his body splayed out on a bar. And yet, as always, Clint thought, truth was a day late, and a dollar short.

The room was starting to spin, his vision dimming. One last time, he looked at the two of them, dark-hair and blonde, blue-grey eyes and brown, one living his last moments, the other not alive but living all the same, and he thought of Jasper and C-Chord and Jackpot and Sarge and all the others. Maybe it was a fair trade after all; peace for him, justice for the others.

…..

The room was light, window blinds slatted shut to keep out the mid-day sun. He saw an IV stand, felt the needle in his arm, could see that the bag was filled with thick dark liquid. Shifting, he only managed to hurt himself, his ribs screaming in pain, his pulse pounding in his swollen jaw. A large bandage on his neck crinkled as he turned his head, and it all came rushing back to him, the demon, the murders, Sarge, Angel biting him.

"Don't try to move too much," Angel said from his place in a chair at the desk; Clint recognized the office and the large couch he was laid out on. "You've got a broken rib, a minor concussion, and internal bruising. Doc taped you up pretty good, but you need to replenish the blood you lost before you do anything. He left some drugs for the pain."

"Oh good, he's back among the land of living," Faith came in through the door. "The police are chomping at the bit to interview him, but I think he ought to stay out of it for a while longer, don't you?"

So many questions rolled through Clint's mind, but there was one that was most important. "Am I a vampire now?"

"Nope." Faith laughed. "You have to drink vampire blood for that to happen. Just getting sucked almost dry won't do it. And before you ask, the demon is gone too."

Clint breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank god. Nothing personal, but I don't think that's for me."

"No offense taken. I wouldn't damn anyone else to that life." Angel stood and walked over to the couch. "Your friend's alive too, in the hospital. He confessed to all the murders; they're blaming it on PTSD and what happened in Afghanistan. Probably going to end up with an insanity plea and psychiatric care. The cops think he went crazy and attacked us all at the club. As far as the other witnesses, that's true. They didn't see what happened after you sent them out."

"Poor Sarge. I never even suspected. You think he got me that job in the club so he could hang around, pick out girls?" Clint was thinking it all through now; so many little things made sense, even with the fog of the pain meds clouding his mind. "Guess this means I'm out of a job now."

"You know, you've got a pretty cool head and damn good aim. You ever thought about getting into the P.I. trade?" Faith asked. "You'd be good at this."

"You want to keep me around?" Clint joked, trying to laugh, but ending up with a pained cough. "I think I've had enough of L.A. for a while."

"We know some people in San Francisco who could use some help," Faith winked at Angel. "And then there's always Scotland."

"Wait. There's more out there like you?" Clint asked, although it shouldn't surprise him. If there were demons and vampires here …

"Crazy world, huh? Just wait. You've only scratched the surface," Angel said.

…..

It took Clint almost two weeks to get back to his apartment to gather his things, and his ribs were still hurting as he packed what little he had into a suitcase. Between police interviews, talking with Sarge's doctors and the D.A.'s office, he'd had no time to plan beyond the next day. All he knew, as Faith helped him carry the stuff down the stairs, was that he had finally decided that he wanted to live again. Where he went now didn't really matter – but he had a feeling that, now that he knew about this other world, he'd find himself drawn back into the hunting business. After all, he was good at it and he could save people. What better way to honor his friends' memories?


End file.
